


Opus 35: Canzonetta

by polartaire (iwearanearhatnow)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, Friends to Lovers, M/M, the violinists au approximately no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-10-09 04:36:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10404081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwearanearhatnow/pseuds/polartaire
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov played the violin with his whole being, with his very soul. It was unlike anything Yuuri had ever seen. This was the violin as it should be played, as most people could only dream of playing. And Yuuri, watching the video over and over until it was practically burned onto his retinas, knew two things - one, that there was no one alive who could rival Viktor’s playing, and two, that someday Yuuri would play on the same stage as him.(Or, the one where Viktor and Yuuri are world-class violinists.)





	1. Prelude in D

**Author's Note:**

> So I’m a music education major and one day I thought, ‘what if instead of skaters, Yuuri and Viktor were musicians?’ Then I started thinking about this and now I can’t stop so I decided I’d write it. Full disclosure: I’m a pianist and classical bassist, not a violinist, so I’m probably going to get some things wrong. Please feel free to correct me when I do!
> 
> Updates might be slow because, well, I’m a music major. But I promise not to abandon this.
> 
> (Links to pieces mentioned will be at the end of each chapter.)

There was a rush of applause as he took the stage, loud enough to drown out the clack of his new dress shoes against the wooden flooring but not quite so loud that Yuuri could not still hear the nervous pounding of his own heart in his ears. Sweat was already beginning to bead at his hairline and the back of his neck under the hot lights and the thick fabric of his tuxedo. The conductor made eye contact and smiled encouragingly. With effort, Yuuri smiled back.

A steady pitch replaced the applause as the orchestra tuned, and for a moment the only sound in the Teatro Carlo Felice was bending pitches as Yuuri fussed with his tuning pegs. Spring in Genoa was entirely different from spring in New York; neither the flight nor the climate change had been kind to his already finicky instrument, and he had found himself having to tune far more often than he was used to. Finally, though, he heard the open fifth lock into tune. He nestled his violin securely under his chin and looked over at the conductor.  _ Ready? _ the older man's raised eyebrows seemed to ask. Yuuri gave a fraction of a nod.  _ As I'll ever be. _

Expectant silence hung in the hall for a long moment, a collective intake of breath. Then baton and bow moved in tandem and music, familiar and haunting, spilled into the space.

 

* * *

 

 

On the day the qualification results for the Paganini Competition had been posted, Yuuri had been so sick with anticipation that he had skipped the music history seminar he TA’d for. Instead he had spent the morning camped out in the library, staring at the competition’s website with one trembling hand clenching a coffee cup and the other abusing the ‘refresh’ key. On about the four thousandth refresh (he had long ago lost count) the list had appeared, a nearly unintelligible jumble of letters which his racing mind took too long to translate into words. But there was his name, halfway down the page of qualifying entrants. He had double checked, then triple checked to ensure there was no mistake, but sure enough, there he was: “Katsuki Yuuri, Japan, 29/11/1993”. 

When he showed Celestino a screenshot of the results, his professor had been nearly as delighted as Yuuri himself, immediately launching into a discussion about flight plans, repertoire selection, his competitors, even sightseeing they could do in Genoa. Yuuri had cut him off, laughing, but his enthusiasm had been contagious. This was the first year Yuuri had submitted a video for a competition this prestigious - the first year he had even considered himself good enough to try - and he hadn’t at all expected to make the cut. 

Once he had, though, he couldn’t deny he wanted to win.

The following weeks had been a whirlwind of frantic preparation. Plane tickets were bought, hotel rooms were reserved, music was copied and marked and copied again, and above all repertoire was practiced. Yuuri was used to living in practice rooms, but the past few months had been something else entirely. He had practiced until his fingers were blistered and raw, until his wrists ached, until he could wake up in the middle of the night and play his concerto cold. It had paid off. He had flown through the first two rounds of the competition with ease, feeling strong about the prescribed piece and even managing not to fail the improvisation portion as he had worried he would. 

All that remained, then, was the final round.

 

Yuuri was still nervous. As hard as he had tried to ignore it, to quash it with backstage breathing exercises, he could still feel his stomach churning and his fingers quivering. Well, he supposed he could at least pass that off as vibrato.  _ Pay attention _ , he scolded himself as he played. Everything was going well so far; he had made it through the required Paganini somehow, with only a few minor memory slips. His intonation was consistent, his bowing easy. He only had the Sibelius left. As long as he didn't panic, he could do this.

Yuuri had not selected an easy piece for his concerto of choice. Perhaps he should have - after all, it was his first appearance in a major international competition, and a difficult piece didn’t win you any extra points if you couldn’t play it well. Still, he did not regret his decision. This was the piece he wanted to play. It had just enough technically difficult passages to be impressive and, more importantly, it gave Yuuri ample opportunity to showcase the expressive playing he prided himself on. 

_ Which _ , he reminded himself now,  _ no one will see if you don’t relax a bit.  _ There were a few measures of rest in the solo part coming up, and he seized the opportunity to take a couple deep breaths while the orchestra took up the melody. But when it came time for his next entrance, Yuuri still felt tense, unable to achieve the easy motion he needed for the difficult passages. 

The first major lick of the movement was coming up. He had botched it in practice this morning, tripping over his own fingers as he tried to play it faster than he'd needed to, and he was acutely aware of that now even though he knew he needed to let it go and just play. The phrase started strong, his fingers obeying him for once. He shifted up the fingerboard, remembering too late that he and Celestino had changed the fingering here just days ago when he had overshot the shift several times in a row. Sure enough, he overshot it now too, almost wincing at the obviously out of tune note. It took only a fraction of a second to adjust his finger placement, but it was enough - enough to throw him off, to distract him from what he needed to do next. The subsequent run, a sequence of arpeggiated chords, was sloppy too, his hasty staccato bowing interfering with his intonation, the accents he had worked so hard on practically nonexistent. Yuuri gritted his teeth, flexed the fingers of his left hand against the neck of his violin, and willed the mistakes into the past.

By some act of god he made it through the first movement. 

The second movement was his favorite by far. It was slow, almost uncomfortably so, and frequently dissonant, yearning for a resolution the composer refused to give. It was a lyrical struggle between player and audience - the melody pulling the listener close, only to push them away again with an unexpected harmonic shift. It was sinuous and sweet, grieving and gentle, but with an undertone of something more ominous, and Yuuri loved it. Even now as he played he could nearly forget he had an audience. The dim outlines of figures staring up at him meant nothing - all he had to do was close his eyes and let the music guide him. Yuuri felt his fingers relax at last and his motions become almost effortless. He knew this movement as intimately as he knew himself, and as he played the room flooded with emotion he knew how to release only in this way, in the resistant glide of bow across string, in the duet between himself and the orchestra as the sounds wove together to create a sort of poetry without words.

Only when the final note of the movement faded into nothing, high and thin and trembling, did Yuuri open his eyes.

He had only a moment’s preparation before the low strings began the driving rhythm that opened the third movement. He felt shaky, spent from the mental effort the second movement required of him, and yet he still had fully eight minutes of playing left to do - and some of the most difficult playing of the piece, no less. 

Yuuri knew, as he launched himself into the first ascending run, that it was not going to go well.

Sure enough, no sooner had the thought of failure entered his mind than it began to manifest. He stumbled his way through that first run, reaching the top a full beat before the rest of the orchestra. Despite this he pushed forward, determined to recover. A moment’s respite came in the form of the melody, which he could practically play in his sleep, and then it was on to the double stops. He had started the movement too quickly, though, and could not get the notes to speak properly at this tempo. His traitorous left hand refused to keep the frame necessary for both notes to stay in tune as he shifted. And worst of all, as he made each error, his brain catalogued them, then threw them back into the forefront of his thoughts every time he began another passage. 

Yuuri breathed in time with the music and willed himself back on track, but the damage was done. All the confidence he had had throughout the second movement had evaporated, destroyed by his failed runs. He could only guess how unsure and amateur he sounded. The younger competitors in the audience were no doubt thinking they could play better, that it didn't make sense that Yuuri had advanced to the final and they had not.

Yuuri had to admit they would be right.

 

* * *

 

 

Celestino was talking to him, but Yuuri wasn't listening. He scrolled through Twitter with grim determination, checking both the competition's tag and his own, morbidly wondering what people were saying about his performance. The further he scrolled, the more disappointed he grew.

There had been only two performances following Yuuri’s disastrous one. Yuuri had stayed only long enough to hear Viktor’s performance begin from backstage. It had been apparent after only a few phrases that Viktor was going to win - as if anyone could have properly competed against the man one bold critic had called the reincarnation of Paganini. And sure enough, when the board displaying the results had gone up in the lobby of the concert hall, the first place slot had read ‘Viktor Nikiforov’. Yuuri recognized a few of the other names of violinists who had placed but hadn’t been able to focus on them. Not after he’d seen his own name at the very bottom of the list.

Now, sure enough, social media was singing Viktor’s praises - how flawless his technique had been, how convincingly he had communicated despair through his playing, how ingenious it had been to use a cadenza of his own composition. The few people commenting on Yuuri’s own playing had been disappointed at best and, at worst, outright cruel. 

“I told you not to look,” Celestino scolded. He leaned over his student, trying to distract him from looking at the news. When Yuuri didn’t look up, he sighed. “Come on, let’s go.”

Yuuri stood up, still squinting down at his phone screen, and walked off before Celestino could lecture him further.

He had promised his mother he would call her when the results were in, and no matter how much he didn’t want to, he owed it to her to tell her how the competition had gone. He slipped into the nearest restroom, wanting privacy (the odds were very high that he would start crying at some point during this call; he usually did when talking to his mom) and ducked into a stall. 

His mother picked up on the fourth ring, her voice thick with sleep. “ごめん,” Yuuri apologized, slipping easily into his native Japanese. “Were you sleeping?”

“It’s okay,” she reassured him. “They live streamed the final round, so we got to see you play.”

“Oh, you were watching?” Yuuri was unsure whether to be pleased or ashamed. 

“Yes, the whole family. Quite a few people from town came to the  _ onsen  _ to watch as well.” 

“A public viewing?” He could imagine all too well the people he had known growing up in his hometown of Hasetsu gathered around a screen in his family’s  _ onsen _ , cheering Yuuri on as he performed. “I’m so embarrassed.” Still, he couldn’t help but laugh a little, pleased that his neighbors still supported him so strongly. 

Then he remembered how disappointed they must be at his placement - or lack thereof - and Yuuri’s laughter died. His throat tightened and his eyes burned as the tears he had so far managed to avoid began to well up. “I’m sorry.” His voice broke on the words.

“For what?” His mother sounded shocked to hear him apologize. 

“I messed up.” And then, before she could argue, he hung up. 

The tears came even before he had taken the phone away from his ear, all the emotions he had been trying not to acknowledge - grief, anxiety, shame - flooding over him at once. Grief for Vicchan, his beloved poodle whose death mere days before the competition had been the first stone in a landslide of misery. Anxiety over his future in the wake of this failure and the sickening feeling that his dream of a solo career was retreating further and further from his grasp with every attempt he made to reach it. And shame --

The door to the bathroom stall shook violently with some impact, the clang of metal reverberating harshly through the room and scaring Yuuri so thoroughly he jumped and actually stopped crying. Hastily he stood, scrubbed the tears from his face, and opened the stall door. “Sorry,” he began - and nearly walked directly into the person who had assaulted the door.

Yuuri saw the shoes first, leopard print and casual and utterly out of place at this prestigious competition. Confused, Yuuri took in the rest of the figure. Black slacks over the strange shoes, hands jammed into the pockets of a red and blue jacket Yuuri recognized as belonging to the school most of the Russian violinists he had encountered came from, a black hood pulled up over a shock of blond hair. With a jolt Yuuri realized he recognized him. 

It was Yuri Plisetsky, the winner of that year’s Andrea Postacchini Competition. He was renowned as Russia’s premier junior violinist, he was nicknamed the Russian Punk for his atrocious attitude, and he was currently glaring Yuuri down like he was gum he’d just stepped in. 

Before Yuuri could even begin to figure out what he had done to wrong this boy, the Russian pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Hey,” he said. His tone was as rude as the rest of him. “I’ll be competing in the senior division starting next year.” Vaguely, Yuuri remembered hearing that Plisetsky had missed being able to play in senior comps by mere days, his birthday falling mere days after the cutoff date. “We don’t need two Yuris in the same competition. Incompetent violinists like you should just retire already.” He was all but yelling in Yuuri’s face now, having to stand on his tiptoes to match Yuuri’s height, and Yuuri pulled back instinctively. “Idiot.” 

The words were petty, childish, and completely unprovoked - but they echoed Yuuri’s own feelings so closely that he found himself stunned into silence. Before he could even begin to formulate a response - what were you supposed to say to someone who had just insulted you and yelled at you to retire out of nowhere? - the other Yuri had turned and stalked out of the bathroom, the door banging shut behind him. 

For a moment longer Yuuri stood dumbly in the middle of the restroom. He wanted nothing more than to go back to his hotel room, flop face-first onto the bed, and sleep until today was nothing but a bad memory. But the world had other plans for him. Like talking to the press. And going to the celebratory banquet. And socializing with a bunch of violinists who had either beaten him or thought they had deserved to.

Yuuri sighed. Well, if rumor were to be believed, at least there would be champagne. 

He shook himself and went to find Celestino.

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


Yuuri woke in the morning with a raging headache and an acute sense of regret. He had, it seemed, not bothered to change last night given that he was still wearing the now-wrinkled pants and mostly unbuttoned dress shirt he’d worn to the banquet. His sheets were tangled haphazardly around his feet, only one of which had a sock, and his entire being felt sweat-soaked and disgusting. For a long minute he simply lay there miserably. He had had way too much champagne last night, he knew, but it had been free, and he had needed it to have any chance at socializing successfully. Except for that he hadn’t ended up socializing much at all - not even with Viktor, who he’d been trying to work up the courage to talk to all evening - and instead had just stood in a corner, empty champagne glasses piling up on the nearest table. 

And after that he didn’t remember anything, really. Which was a relief.

Well, except for that he was now apparently thoroughly hung over. He had fulfilled all his press duties the night before, thank god, but he still had a long flight back to New York ahead of him. Two things were in order, then: a shower and coffee. 

It took an hour’s worth of vigorous scrubbing, cheap hotel coffee drinking, and aimless social media scrolling before Yuuri felt human enough to even try to pack. In the end he just threw all his belongings into his small suitcase, hoisted his violin case over his shoulder, and went to meet Celestino. 

The hotel lobby was packed with violinists and their entourages trying to check out of the hotel on time and paparazzi scrambling to get one last photo of the competitors (well, one competitor in particular). Yuuri wove his way through the crowd toward Celestino, avoiding eye contact as much as possible. 

His teacher greeted him with a wry smile. “How are you feeling?” he asked Yuuri and, knowing Celestino was poking fun at him for last night’s drinking, Yuuri blushed. 

“Fine,” he mumbled.

“Ready to go home?”

“Absolutely.”

The two of them were halfway to the hotel doors when Yuuri heard someone say his name. He turned - and felt a shock go through him as he realized the voice belonged to none other than Viktor Nikiforov. 

Yuuri stared. 

Viktor was, of course, talking to the Russian Yuri, something about how the boy needed to focus more when he played -  _ of course it’s that Yuri, _ Yuuri scolded himself,  _ why on earth would Viktor ever be talking to  _ me _? _ Viktor was even more stunning up close than in all the videos Yuuri had seen of him, his hair more shockingly silver, his talented hands hanging easily at his sides. 

_ You need to stop staring. _ He couldn’t, though. Not with his idol mere feet away from him, oblivious to Yuuri’s very existence.

As if on cue, Viktor’s head turned and Yuuri, caught, felt his face grow red. Their eyes met. Viktor gave him his trademark bright smile and held out a hand invitingly. “Would you like a commemorative photo?” he asked.

It took Yuuri a moment to process what Viktor was saying even though his English, while accented, was excellent. Commemorative photos were for fans, something they could post online to brag that they’d met the living legend of the violin world. They were not for competitors. 

_ He doesn’t know who I am _ , Yuuri realized. Viktor was saying something else, giving Yuuri a look that was equal parts confusion and concern, but Yuuri wasn’t listening. He turned his back on the Russian man, shame gnawing at his stomach, and pushed through the crowd to the exit.

If he had looked back he might have seen a pair of clear blue eyes, just the slightest trace of hurt visible in them, still watching him from across the lobby.

But he did not look back.


	2. Ballade

“Hey, Yuuri, which do you think looks better?”

Yuuri looked up from the score he was studying to see Phichit with a collection of bow ties dangling from his neck. He was preparing for his junior recital and had been testing various outfit choices out on Yuuri for days now. Just two days ago he had had to talk Phichit out of wearing socks with hamsters on them under his suit. “The blue one,” Yuuri told his roommate after a moment’s thought, flicking the end of the tie in question with one finger. “It brings out your eyes.”

“Cool, thanks.” Phichit flung the bow ties over the back of his chair and flopped down on the bed next to Yuuri, scrutinizing the score over his shoulder. “What’re you studying?”

“The Britten concerto. Celestino thinks I should work on it over the break.”

“You should, I’d like to hear you play it.” They stared at the score together for a moment in silence, then Phichit rolled over onto his back and groaned dramatically. “Yuuri, what if I fail my recital?”

“You can’t fail a recital if you’ve already passed your hearing.” Yuuri didn’t even look up; he and Phichit had had this conversation nearly verbatim at least three other times that week. “Besides. You always play better in front of an audience.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault I was born to be in the spotlight.” He sighed. “Man, I can’t wait to go home, though.” Phichit’s recital was just over a week away, and almost immediately afterwards he was getting on a flight back to Thailand. “Have you decided yet what you’re doing for break?”

In the nearly a year since his poor showing at the Paganini Competition, Yuuri had been asking himself the same question. By the end of this semester, two weeks from now, he would technically have completed all of the requirements for his degree. He and Celestino had discussed the possibility of Yuuri coming back to New York next fall anyway; as of right now he was still undecided. On one hand, he loved learning from Celestino, loved his studio, and most of all loved having Phichit close as a friend and colleague. But...well, continuing on that path meant continuing to compete. It was what Celestino’s top students did. And Yuuri  _ wanted _ to compete, wanted to  _ win _ , no matter how nerve wracking and exhausting it was.

But if the best he could do was an embarrassing sixth place, if a fifteen-year-old Russian kid could confidently tell him he should just give up... Maybe he would be better off just going back to Japan, auditioning for symphonies, and making a career that way. He was certain he had enough talent to get a spot in one of Japan’s several major groups. There was no shame in choosing orchestral playing over solo playing. Right?

“Yuuri. Yuuri!” He snapped back to the present to see Phichit looking at him quizzically. “You awake in there?”

“Sorry. Yeah. Um.” It took Yuuri a minute to remember what Phichit had asked. “I think I’m going to go back to Japan. It’s been awhile since I saw my family.”

“I think that’s a great idea. You should always be with your family when you’re having a hard time,” Phichit agreed. “Tell you what. I’ll bring you a souvenir from Thailand if you bring me one from Japan. Maybe one of those cute stuffed animals.”

Yuuri couldn’t help but laugh. “Deal.”

“Ooh, or a poster of yourself. They probably have a million of those in your town, don’t they? We could put it up right next to your Viktor poster.” Phichit grinned playfully, and Yuuri felt his gut twist with guilt at the knowledge that they would most likely not be roommates anymore at the end of the break. 

But he told Phichit, “Sure, I’ll see if I can get one at one of those awful tourist shops,” and made himself smile anyway.

 

* * *

 

Minako met Yuuri at the train station. She was carrying a new, stylish purse and her face was a bit thinner than he remembered, but otherwise his old teacher seemed not to have changed at all in the five years he had been away. 

“Welcome back, Yuuri!” she exclaimed, giving him a bear hug as he tried to push through the turnstile, apparently oblivious to the heads her loud voice turned. “Glad you finally decided to come back to us.” 

Yuuri averted his eyes, feeling bad once more for not visiting more frequently. “Yeah, it’s good to be back.” He looked around, taking in the station he remembered so well from the day he left, just a kid with a couple of suitcases, a violin, and dreams of the spotlight. “It seems...emptier than usual.” 

“Well, Hasetsu is a small town. A lot of people have been moving to Saga and some of the other larger cities lately.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “It’ll be livelier with you around, though!”

Yuuri doubted that somehow. He had not been feeling particularly lively lately, between stress over graduation and his concerns about the future. But he let Minako grab him by the wrist and pull him excitedly out of the station, doing his best to look happy to be home. 

Which he was, honestly. Going to school in the United States meant plane tickets home were expensive, and his schedule had been so packed he would have been hard pressed to find the time to visit anyway. His parents insisted they didn’t mind, saying there were just proud he had gotten accepted to such a prestigious school as the Eastman School of Music and that his education was what was most important. Yuuri knew they missed him, though. And he missed them, too. He missed the pleasant bustle of the  _ onsen _ during the busy season. He missed Vicchan greeting him at the door when he returned from school in the evening. He missed his late night conversations with his sister Mari that were half good natured teasing and half genuine older sisterly advice. He missed his father’s soft spoken but reliable nature. And of course, like all college students, he missed his mother’s advice and home cooking.

The jet lag hit him full force on the drive from the station, though, and he spent much of the time dozing in Minako’s passenger seat while she tried to fill him in on what he had missed during his time away. As much as he wanted to catch up with his family, all he wanted right now was a warm meal, perhaps a short soak in the hot springs, and then a long night’s rest in his familiar childhood bed. 

As the car crunched up the gravel drive to the  _ onsen _ , Yuuri worried briefly that his parents might have planned some kind of welcome home party for him - the townspeople of Hasetsu saw him as something of a celebrity despite his lack of international success, and it seemed like the kind of thing they might cook up. But when he stepped inside the front entrance of his family’s  _ onsen  _ and called out, “I’m home!”, the only things that assailed him were the nearly forgotten sound and smell of meat frying and his mother’s eager form, her arms open. 

Yuuri hugged her. She seemed shorter than he remembered (though more likely he had grown), but the silky softness of the traditional clothes she wore for work and the scent of spices that always clung to her were exactly as they had always been. “Welcome home,” she said, and Yuuri smiled. 

The  _ onsen  _ was surprisingly empty for a Saturday night. A few regulars, friends of Yuuri’s father whom he recognized from childhood and who came to chat with his father and drink beer, were scattered at the bar or nearby tables. A few of them looked up when Yuuri came in and smiled at him. Yuuri smiled back, though he suspected they did not actually recognize him.

He had changed a lot since he had left.

The four of them had a quiet dinner. Yuuri’s mother had made her signature  _ katsudon _ , Yuuri’s favorite, and he ate with gusto even though he had not thought he was that hungry. His parents asked incessant questions about his time at Eastman and Yuuri described the experience as best he could, telling them about Phichit and his hamsters, Celestino’s lessons, the pieces he had worked on, the New York adventures his classmates (well, mostly Phichit) had talked him into going on. Minako teased him a little about the weight he had put on and how his hands were clearly out of shape from not practicing enough, but for the most part very little mention was made of Yuuri’s career or his future plans. 

Yuuri was thoroughly grateful for that. He was no closer to answers or a plan than he had been at the end of the semester, and thinking about it only stressed him out. On more than one occasion Phichit had come home from class to find Yuuri in various states of panic from which he had had to calm him down using hugs, soothing words, and copious amounts of tea.

By the time he had finished eating, Yuuri was drowsier than ever. But there was one more thing he had to do before he could collapse into bed and sleep for at least twelve hours.

His parents had set up a small shrine for Vicchan when the beloved dog had died, something that Yuuri might have found absurd if Vicchan hadn’t been such a valued member of the Katsuki household. Yuuri knelt by the small shelf and looked at the photo his parents had chosen - one of the poodle with his tongue hanging out, smiling like the ham he was. A bowl of water and a candle sat beside the photo.  _ I’m sorry, Vicchan, _ Yuuri told his pet silently.  _ I wish I could have seen you one last time. _

The door to the room slid open and Yuuri turned to see Mari leaning against the door frame. She had gotten a few new piercings since Yuuri had last seen her and she had grown her hair out so her natural brown showed beneath the blonde she had dyed it, but the disinterested and slightly exhausted expression she always seemed to be wearing had not changed a bit. “久しぶり,弟,” she said, giving Yuuri a playful smile. 

“Hey, Mari.” He got to his feet slowly, his legs still stiff from the nearly fourteen hours he had spent on the plane. “Did closing go okay?” Mari was the stay-at-home sibling; she worked at the  _ onsen  _ with their parents and was usually responsible for the day’s closing duties. 

“Yeah, some old guy left his wallet in the changing room, but he’s coming to get it tomorrow. Otherwise it was fine.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes and fastened it back with a purple headband, giving her brother a searching look. “Are you staying here to help out?”

Mari had never been one to beat around the bush. Yuuri sighed. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “I have to think about it.”

Around the time of the Paganini Competition Yuuri had had a long talk with Mari, disclosing some of his dilemmas about the future to her and asking for her advice. She had been supportive and encouraged him to keep competing (although she preferred he do so a little closer to home). “Okay,” she said now. “Either way, it’s good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back.” Yuuri smiled. “You guys haven’t turned my old room into storage yet, right?” 

“No. I wanted to, but Mom wouldn’t let me,” she teased. 

“Remind me to thank Mom later.”

Mari laughed. “Go get some sleep, Yuuri. You look exhausted.”

“I am.” He could not hold back a yawn. “See you in the morning, Mari.” 

“Good. I’m going to put you to work.” 

Yuuri chose to ignore that jibe - he had always gotten out of doing chores around the house as a kid by using his free time to practice the violin, and Mari used to tease him about it endlessly. 

He dragged himself up the stairs to his old room, hesitating only a little at the door before slipping inside. 

His bedroom was much the same as he had left it five years ago. He could tell that someone, most likely his mother, had been in recently to dust and put clean sheets on his bed, but besides that, stepping into the room was like looking through a window into his past. The tiny cactus he had tended all through high school still sat on his desk, his collection of textbooks and novels still populated the bookshelf in the corner, framed photos of his friends still perched on the desk next to taped-up postcards. 

And, of course, there were the posters.

It was not exactly common for violinists to have promotional posters of themselves available for sale; that was something generally reserved for actors, pro athletes, pop stars, and the like. But when you were both as popular and as attractive as Viktor Nikiforov, it would have been foolish  _ not  _ to have merchandise. Young fans all over the world were more than willing to pay for posters with pictures of Viktor playing the violin, Viktor in a well tailored suit, Viktor with his equally popular poodle Makkachin. Yuuri was no exception. Between gifts from his parents or friends and money he had saved from his part time job, Yuuri had acquired a rather extensive collection of Viktor’s posters. A few had come with him to New York to adorn the bare walls of his and Phichit’s apartment, but most had stayed behind in his childhood home. 

As he looked at them now, Yuuri’s gut twisted, as it had every time he had thought about Viktor since the Paganini Competition.  _ A commemorative photo. _ Yuuri turned his back to the posters.

His mother had left an old pair of his pajamas out for him. Yuuri put them on gratefully and crawled into bed. 

 

* * *

 

The next day Yuuri went to visit Yuko.

The two of them had become friends in middle school, a fact that seemed almost inevitable as they were in the same after school orchestra and both taking violin lessons from Minako at the time. Yuko was two years older than Yuuri and at least twice as energetic - bubbly where he was subdued, outgoing where he was shy, a risk taker where he was hesitant. They complemented each other well. Together they had navigated the murky waters of adolescence through late night phone calls and early morning walks to school. 

Just after her graduation Yuko had married a classmate and fellow musician, Nishigori Takeshi. Yuuri had been wary of the match at first - after all, Takeshi had spent much of middle school teasing Yuuri for his chubbiness and his shyness - but when he had seen the two of them together, radiant and oozing with happiness, Yuuri had relented. Shortly after the wedding, Yuko had given birth to triplet girls: Melody, Harmony, and Aria. Their first birthday party had been one of the last times Yuuri had seen Yuko and her family before leaving for college. 

He had kept in touch with Yuko in the intervening years, though. She had been working part time at the town’s only performance venue, Hasetsu Hall, since she had started high school and had always been one of the owner’s favorites. When, a few years ago, he had decided to retire, he had entrusted the ownership of the place to Yuko. Now she and Takeshi were making a modest living by booking performances of touring artists and housing school concerts. 

Yuko had texted him earlier that day to tell him that The Hall had an event that evening but that Yuuri should stop by later that night to see the place and say hello. And so, after dinner, Yuuri walked over to the concert hall. 

The triplets unlocked the door for Yuuri when he knocked tentatively. No sooner was he in the door than the three of them were hugging his legs and grinning. “Hi, Yuuri-ojisan!” the pigtailed one exclaimed. 

Flustered and a little surprised the triplets even recognized him, Yuuri ruffled their hair. “Hi, Aria, Harmony, Melody.” He was fairly certain he said the right name to the right girl - the three of them wore their hair differently - but he could never be entirely sure. 

“Hey, Yuuri!” Yuko came around the corner, a heavy box of what seemed to be programs in her arms. She set it down on the nearest table and pulled Yuuri into a tight hug, nearly lifting him off of the ground in her enthusiasm. “It’s been awhile, huh!”

“Yeah, too long.” Yuuri detached himself carefully from Yuuko and her brood of equally excitable children. “Since when have the girls been calling me ‘uncle’?”

Yuko laughed heartily. Yuuri had missed that laugh. “They’ve been doing it for...probably two years now? I can tell them to stop it if it bothers you.”

“Nah, I think it’s kind of cute.”

“Me too.” They shared a smile, then Yuko looked down and saw the case in Yuuri’s hand. “Oh, good, you did bring your violin. We did some work on the acoustics and I wanted you to have a chance to test them out, I forgot to tell you over the phone.”

“No worries. I figured I might try to get a little practice in anyway if you weren’t too busy. I’ve missed this space.” 

“It has missed you too.” Yuko hoisted her box of program again, balancing it on one hip. “Hang on, just let me - Takeshi!” This last was shouted in the general direction of the auditorium. 

There was a loud banging from inside the hall, then several crashes that sounded like the collision of metal and wood. Takeshi appeared at the entrance to the lobby, holding a mic stand in one arm and with a poorly wound cable slung over the other. “Oh, hey Yuuri,” he said, casually. 

His wife looked at him with an expression that clearly said, ‘I love you but you are a complete idiot.’ “Yuuri, will you help my incompetent husband put away the mic equipment?” 

“Sure, yeah.”

It took the three of them about half hour to finish tearing down all of the equipment the Nishigoris had used for the event, dodging the triplets the entire time (they insisted they were helping). When the last cords had been wound and the last piece of trash picked up, Yuko opened the door to the performance hall and ushered Yuuri inside.

The hall was empty, dark save for the onstage work lights, the dimness desaturating the dark wood floor and deep burgundy curtains. Most people would have found the vastness and silence of an empty concert hall intimidating, but for Yuuri it was comforting, a sort of liminal space where only he and the music existed. He had been spending many of his evenings here since high school, taking advantage of Yuko’s kindness and spare keys in order to practice in a private environment. 

It was here that he had played recitals as a child, here that he had taped his audition for Eastman, here that he had spent countless hours practicing and learning music and building up calluses and crying with frustration. He supposed it was fitting that he should return here now, when all of that hard work had proven useless.

“Remember when we used to practice here before studio class?” Yuko asked, her voice echoing in the space. 

Yuuri smiled fondly, recalling their early days in Minako’s violin studio. “Yeah. We were supposed to be working on orchestral excerpts, but we always just ended up improvising.”

“Or trying to play pop music,” Yuko laughed.

Yuuri’s face scrunched with embarrassment at his past self. “Oh god, yes. Minako yelled at us when she got here and heard us playing the Sailor Moon opening.” He and Yuko smiled at each other for a long moment, basking in the glow of their shared childhood, their happy memories.

Then the moment was gone and they were their present selves again - just childhood friends who hadn’t seen each other in years and had grown into very different lives.

“I’ll, ah, leave you to it,” Yuko said. 

“Wait,” Yuuri halted her as she turned to leave, remembering why he had come here in the first place. “I have something to show you.” 

Curious, Yuko sat down in one of the front row seats and watched Yuuri intently as he hopped onto the stage and started setting up his instrument. He gave the strings a few quizzical strokes, testing the acoustics of the room against the sound in his memory, and began.

Yuuri had never performed this piece in competition. Or in public at all, really. Not that he couldn’t; he had more than polished it in his years of work on it, coming back to it whenever he was stressed or unmotivated or frustrated with his current repertoire. No, he didn’t dare let this piece out of the practice room because, to him, this was Viktor’s Piece. What it was in reality was a movement of a beautiful Romantic concerto, not an uncommon piece of repertoire by any means. But it was the first piece he had ever seen Viktor play, and so, for Yuuri, the two were forever linked.

Even then, as young as he had been, Viktor’s playing had been imbued with love and light and warmth. It was what Yuuri had fallen in love with about the Russian boy’s playing and what he loved about it still. Yuuri had been striving to emulate it in his own playing ever since, and now was no exception. He played as if Viktor himself was in the room, as if by playing the piece that had made Viktor famous Yuuri could tell him how much he admired him, how hard he had striven to play on the same stage as Viktor, how devastated he was that he had blown his chance. What he wouldn’t give for another.

Even as focused as he was on the music, Yuuri could tell that this was some of his best playing. Why couldn’t he have played like this when Viktor was watching? Perhaps then Viktor would have recognized Yuuri for what he was - a worthy competitor, a colleague, not just a fan.

Yuuri had tried this movement with every cadenza ever written for it, but he always ended back up at the same one - the one Viktor himself had written for it when he had played it in his first competition. It was devilishly hard, playful and show-offy at the same time. For years Yuuri could do no more than stumble through it - but he had persevered nonetheless. All of that hard work had finally paid off, and just this past year he had been able to play it to a level he was satisfied with. 

And so he played it now for Yuko, not for points or adjudication or trophies, just for his own satisfaction.

The post music silence lay heavy over the hall for a long, long moment. Then Yuko let out a breath, and Yuuri followed. He wasn’t convinced he hadn’t been holding his breath through the entire cadenza. 

“Yuuri,” Yuko breathed, her voice full of awe and pride.

The confidence Yuuri always gained while playing drained away. He ducked his head and blushed. “I’ve been working on that a lot over the past couple of years.”

“Viktor’s piece.” Yuuri nodded an affirmation. “I had no idea you even remembered that.” 

“How could I forget it?” 

It was the first piece Yuuri had heard Viktor play. Yuuri had been thirteen at the time, Yuko fifteen, both of them just beginning to take the violin seriously. Yuuri had been studying that piece at the time and struggling to give it an interpretation that satisfied him. Minako had charged him to listen to recordings, and when he had mentioned it to Yuko she had told Yuuri she had a video that might help.

The video quality was poor, the image grainy and pixelated, but even in 240p Yuuri could tell the boy was beautiful. His long hair, silver-pale under the stage lights, was tied back, a few stray wisps falling over his face as he played. His eyes were a clear blue and slipped shut frequently as he lost himself in the music. His body, thin and lithe and absent of all the gangliness Yuuri himself was struggling with, shaped the phrases as much as his hands did. And his hands - his  _ fingers _ . Yuuri could not see them as clearly as he wanted to, but he could hear the sounds they wrested from his instrument.

The boy’s tone was clear, ethereal, but never thin; effortless and smooth. Not a note was out of tune, not a finger was out of place. But it wasn’t his accuracy that had Yuuri leaning in toward the screen, utterly captivated.

Viktor Nikiforov played the violin with his whole being, with his very soul. It was unlike anything Yuuri had ever seen. This was the violin as it should be played, as most people could only dream of playing. And Yuuri, watching the video over and over until it was practically burned onto his retinas, knew two things - one, that there was no one alive who could rival Viktor’s playing, and two, that someday Yuuri wanted to play on the same stage as him.

When he arrived at his lesson the following week, Minako was stunned to see that Yuuri had entirely changed not only his interpretation of the piece, but also his enthusiasm for violin playing. He had always loved to play, but something was different now. There was a light in his eyes that had not been there before. Yuuri had a goal and Minako, taken aback by this sudden change though she might have been, knew she would do everything in her power to help him reach it.

In the meantime, Yuuri learned everything he could about his newfound idol. 

He pored over every video of Viktor available on the Internet, dug up recordings from competitions, and scoured social media sites for any mention of the other boy. Viktor, he learned, was Russian (as his name suggested). He had been fifteen at the time the video Yuuri had seen was recorded, the same age Yuuri was when he found the video, but in actuality Viktor was now nineteen. He was studying at the Royal Academy of Music in London on a substantial scholarship. He had participated in nearly every major competition he could since he was old enough to qualify, both in Russia and internationally - and won most of them to boot. He had already given several concerts which critics and fans alike had hailed as some of the best playing since Perlman or Bell. And of course, as many young fans had noticed, he was unnecessarily attractive, a fact which only helped his popularity.

That first video had been taken at the finals of the Moscow International Junior Violin Competition, which Viktor had won with the concerto Yuuri had by now watched him play at least a hundred times, the old video still as impressive each successive time as it had been the first. 

So impressive, in fact, that later that year Yuuri entered a Japanese junior competition himself. For weeks, months in advance he did nothing but practice, his usually good grades slipping so dramatically as he chose violin over homework that his concerned teachers began calling home. Yuuri’s performance of a Mozart concerto earned him a second place prize - his first placement, his first taste of the victory Viktor experienced so frequently.

It was intoxicating.

The competition had passed almost in a dream. Yuuri was hardly aware of what he was playing or who he was performing for, just that he was on stage, making music, that this must be what Viktor felt when he played. Yuuri loved it. As he stood on that stage and played the final notes of the concerto with a flourish, fingers exhausted and legs aching from the effort of more continuous playing than he had ever done before, Yuuri knew. This was what he wanted to spend his life doing.

As with most things in life, though, it had not been that simple.

“You play it flawlessly,” Yuko told Yuuri now, and he shook himself from his memories. “Just like Viktor.”

“Yeah, if only I could play anything  _ else _ that well.”

Yuko chuckled. “That will come with time and practice. Which, speaking of.” She tossed something onto the stage. “Here, take my spare keys. The hall is yours whenever you want to practice in it, as long as we don’t have a show. Just lock it when you leave, okay?”

“I will. Thanks, Yuko.” He met her gaze and held it for a long moment. “For everything.” 

Yuko smiled at him gently, encouragingly. God, he had missed her. “Any time.” 

 

* * *

 

Yuuri woke up slowly, the aggressive cheerfulness of his phone’s ring tone dragging him unwillingly from his warm bubble of sleep. At first, bleary and confused, he thought he was still at Eastman - was he late for a class? Did he have a rehearsal he was supposed to be at?

Gradually he came to and realized that, no, he was home in Hasetsu and it was only someone calling him. He was sorely tempted to ignore it - after all, whose phone call could be more important than sleeping? Then he rolled over and saw it was Yuko. Reluctantly, he answered it.

“‘lo?”

“Yuuri, hi. Sorry I woke you up.”

“‘S okay.” He snuck a peek at the clock on his phone. It was nearly eleven thirty, well past a reasonable time to be awake. “What’s up?”

“Well. Um.” A long pause. Anxiety blossomed in the pit of Yuuri’s stomach, the creeping and unshakeable feeling that Yuko was about to give him some news he very much did not want to hear. “You know how you played Viktor’s piece for me the other night?”

“Yeah...”

“Well, the triplets were watching. I guess they snuck in behind me when I let you into the hall.” 

“O...kay?”

“And, well, they...kind of videotaped you. On my phone.”

“Oh?” Yuuri was still failing to see what the issue was. Melody, Harmony, and Aria were his self proclaimed biggest fans; they had videos of just about everything he had ever played. Of course they would not pass up a chance to record their favorite violinist practicing live in his home concert hall.

“And then they. Um. They might have posted it to YouTube.” Yuko sounded absolutely mortified on her girls’ behalf. “I’m so sorry, Yuuri.”

“It’s not like anyone will watch it anyway.” Unlike Viktor, Yuuri did not have much of a fan following. He was rarely active on social media, was not nearly as handsome as the Russian man, and made no attempt to cater to any particular audience even when he did compete. While a video of Viktor practicing in his home town would surely garner millions of views, Yuuri was confident that very few people would even notice a video of him had been posted. 

There was a long, long silence from the other end of the phone. The anxiety crawled up Yuuri’s throat, making it suddenly hard to breathe. “Yuuri...” Yuko took a deep breath. “The video...sort of went viral.” 

Yuko was still talking, probably explaining what had happened, but Yuuri barely registered her words.  _ Viral?   _ Sure, he had fashioned his interpretation of that piece from Viktor’s competition debut performance, but something like that was too subtle for even the most rabid Nikiforov fan to notice. And there were hundreds, thousands even, recordings of that piece on the internet. There was absolutely no reason for his video out of all of them to attract any attention.

Except - oh god, the cadenza, he had played Viktor’s cadenza. The cadenza Viktor had written himself at the tender young age of fifteen, causing critics the world over to label him a prodigy. The cadenza which had helped him win the competition that kickstarted his performance career. Possibly one of the most recognizable cadenzas in all of modern violin playing, especially to people who followed Viktor’s career religiously, and there were many of them. That cadenza. Which Yuuri had played last night, at the end of the concerto that had made Viktor famous, with no small amount of passion.

Yuuri dropped the phone.

When his shaking hands finally managed to fish the phone out of his tangled sheets and bring it back to his ear again, Yuko was still talking hastily. “-and I told them they were not allowed to use any of my social media but they’re kids, you know how they are, and by the time I found out it already had like a million views because someone figured out that that’s Viktor’s cadenza so, you know, now the corner of Twitter that follows this stuff is all over it, and I would delete it but -” 

“Yuko,” he interrupted. He loved Yuko to death, but he needed her to be quiet or he was going to actively start panicking. “It isn’t your fault.” 

“Right. Yeah.” She took a deep breath. In the background Yuuri could hear the triplets screeching about something or other. Probably his brand new YouTube popularity. Yuuri groaned. “I’m so, so sorry, Yuuri.”

“It’s okay, Yuko, really.” It wasn’t, not really, but there was nothing Yuko could have done about it. No sense in making her feel guilty. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course.” Another sigh. “I’ll talk to you later.” 

“Bye, Yuko.” 

The line went dead. Yuuri stared at his phone screen, trying to figure out if he was going to check out the video or not. On one hand, he had a sort of morbid curiosity about what people were saying about his performance, about its similarity to Viktor’s. On the other hand, though, he really,  _ really _ did not want to deal with it right now. 

In the end he just powered his phone off, shoved it under his pillow, and went back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

When Yuuri woke up in the morning, it had snowed.

It was not so uncommon for the weather to take unexpected turns in the spring. Still, though, pushing open his curtain to see cold, bright light and snow coating the branches of the tree outside his window came as a shock. It had been so warm the previous evening, it was almost as if he had slipped into a parallel universe while he was asleep. 

He stayed in bed for several long minutes, huddled beneath his covers, wondering if perhaps he could go back to sleep. The gentle hum of the TV was barely audible from downstairs; from the few words Yuuri could make out it sounded like the weather report. His parents’ voices drifted up through the floorboards, accompanied by the muffled sounds of the  _ onsen _ ’s opening routine. It made Yuuri smile - to be back home again, to be surrounded by the sights and sounds and people he loved.

Yuuri managed to get away with simply laying there for nearly an hour before Mari started banging his door down. “Yuuri, come help shovel!” she hollered at him. “I left the front walk for you!”

He made an indeterminate but displeased noise at his sister and reluctantly disentangled himself from the blankets, knocking his phone to the ground in the process. Yuuri rescued it. It had not gone off yet that morning - unusual, considering Phichit usually texted him incessantly any time they were separated. 

Then he remembered. He had turned it off so he would not have to get any calls or texts. Any of the fallout from the video the Nishigori triplets had posted. 

Groaning, he dropped the phone, still off, back on his bed and went downstairs.

When he pushed the front door open, a gust of snow blew in, and with it came - Vicchan? No, Yuuri thought, even as the dripping and overenthusiastic dog knocked him half onto the ground, it was too big to be Vicchan, and anyway --

Wait.

“Mom?” Yuuri called. His mother stepped out of the kitchen, coffee in one hand. “Whose dog is this?”

His mom knelt down and scratched the dog behind the ears, earning an excited tail wag. “Oh, he came in with a good-looking foreigner this morning. He’s upstairs now, in one of the spare rooms.”

Yuuri was on his feet before she had even finished speaking. His video - a good-looking foreigner - a poodle who looked just like Vicchan - there was no way, it was impossible, but still. He had to see for himself.

He careened into a table and nearly knocked his father over in his haste, calling an apology over his shoulder as he ran. He took the stairs two by two, half-slid down the hallway, crashed to a halt on the wall opposite an occupied room. The door was cracked. Breathing heavily and rubbing a bruised hip, Yuuri threw the door open and stumbled into the room. 

At the window, a young man stood with his back to Yuuri, a striped sweater halfway over his head. He pulled the sweater the rest of the way off and tossed it onto a suitcase in the corner, then turned, no doubt confused at the sudden intruder.

Yuuri would know that silver hair anywhere.

“V-Viktor?” he stammered. Somehow he remembered to switch to English. “What...are you doing here?”

Viktor’s face broke into a grin. He spread his arms wide in a dramatic gesture of welcome. “Hello, Yuuri! Starting today, I am your new teacher.” His accent gave the words a cadence, and he drew the vowel in Yuuri’s name out even longer than necessary. “You’re going to compete in the Tchaikovsky Competition next year. And you’re going to win.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I finally finished another chapter...... /nervous laughter/
> 
> Japanese translations: 久しぶり,弟 = It's been a while, little brother
> 
> "Viktor's piece": [Beethoven, Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 61 (Hilary Hahn)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wBrZurwBGJY)
> 
> As always, I'm on Tumblr [here](http://polartaire.tumblr.com), come say hi!

**Author's Note:**

> Yuuri's pieces: [Sibelius, Violin Concerto in D minor, Op 47 (Itzhak Perlman)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mew7Hj4Wjr0)  
>  [Paganini, Violin Concerto No. 1 in D major, Op. 6 (Hilary Hahn)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MenIhT7umeM&t=1100s)
> 
> The Paganini Competition is a real thing, and so is the Andrea Postacchini. Wherever possible, I'll be referencing actual competition requirements and repertoire (though I might fudge the years a little....)
> 
> also yes I'm spelling Viktor with a k please don't hate me
> 
> p.s. cookies to anyone who can figure out what work the title references... ^^
> 
> (i'm on tumblr [here](http://polartaire.tumblr.com), come say hi!)


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